Strike 2. Pesteh
About a month ago, I missed a flight from
Fast forward to last Tuesday night at 11 pm. A couple of friends saw me off and happily, we had a photo op outside. Walking in, the airport looked bright, shiny and new. Perhaps due to the lateness of the hour, there were no long lines, no milling crowds. Looking at the departure board, I felt the first touch of unease: no display for my flight. One query returned no answer. Two more led me to the counters at the end of Row C but another airline was checking in its passengers. A final question provided the only one of two explanations available: “sir your flight is on the 22nd”. Deja vetch!!
A lesson was just given out but I did not learn. I wasn’t paying attention, I’m a slow learner or I’m both. I committed exactly the same mistake: not looking at my own flight details. Tangadiveh?
The funny thing was two friends looked at it and failed to see the date, but confirmed what I knew to be the flight departure. P also checked earlier.
I absolyutly loathed myself on the 30-minute ride back to the hotel. To feel better, I asked my friends to go out and have a drink
If there’s going to be a sequel, I don’t want to be there.
It’s 10 am, Sunday. I’m listening to a radio station where the DJs tout their program as “less talk and more light rock love songs”. Not that that stopped them from talking lengthily! My attention was caught when sometime during one of their interminable conversations, this time something about relationships, the female DJ said something to this effect: “hello! 59 na ‘no” implying that older men (and perhaps older women?) should be boxed and put away, shelved and placed out of reach, consigned to homes to knit and do needlepoint, and wait for death. When did we become so ageist? When did we start to assume that physical and emotional feelings/needs of older people completely wither away as soon as they reach a certain age? When did we start to think that older people no longer had the right to love (except their grandchildren, if they had any) or have physical relationships? Where did this kind of thinking come from?
When you reach a certain age – anywhere from 50 up and for some, 40 up – get ready because people begin to make cracks about senility, reduced mobility, poor eyesight etc. It’s like you’re being primed for a sedentary life and being unobtrusively prepared for death. It’s a fact that human bodies slow down over time but this should not mean you have less feelings or your fate is to become more stupid and acquire Alzheimer’s.
What’s the difference when an adult says to a child “Sit here and wait. Don’t go anywhere” and an adult consigning their older family members/relatives to homes? Or for others, to obscure parts of their lives in order to reduce contact? It’s choice, which is not yet given to children. But for older persons who’ve gained self-determination (or a semblance of it), there’s absolutely no need to accept a lifestyle that’s restricted and defined by those who take away your choices.
Persons who are ageist really gets my goat, not that I keep one.
While waiting for their vehicle, a good but exasparating friend - to protect her identity, let’s call her Anna - asked a colleague “Do you go to the ‘Heart’?” For those not from this town, Heart or Heart of Darkness is a combination of a bar and a disco with a mixed crowd; gay friendly. Her co-worker’s answer: “Sometimes, but not forever.”
A friend visited a bar because he was best in horniness that night. Wishing and hoping for a booking, he started talking with a young man. At one point he asked, ‘How old are you?’ ‘Five dollars,’ the young man said.
One day, La Mierda and I decided to play tennis. Because she said she’s an animal rights activist , she invited Chino. When we arrived at the sports center, an attractive thirty something guy said something nice about Chino. We glanced at each other and the same thought crossed our minds: ‘Daddy!’. La Mierda initiated a gentle Q&A, using skills polished in a finishing school. After a couple of minutes of chika, we introduced ourselves. I’m Dora, I said. I’m La Mierda, say ng sister. And you? she added. I’m Cambodian, he said.
I can’t recall the story on this one: ‘I love you. I want to study English.’
Description of Jeff Palmer – very super bottom
Yes, the descriptions of luscious fruits, sensual shapes, stirring scents, got me all excited. But some of the fruits were missing…here is my own list of fave fruits in the
First on my list is the lumpy greenish fruit, about the size of a fist, with what looks like greenish-black armor plates. Smaller cousin of the Philippine guyabano or grapefruit, but a tad more fleshy and, when fully ripe, not a trace of sourness. Presenting —’Ah-tiss’. (Custard apple in english). If A is for Apple in the English alphabet, A should be for Atis in the Asian one. Unlike some other South-east asian varieties though, the Ah-tiss of the
Number two on the list is the exotic Mangcup (Mangosteen), as it is called in
Then there’s the pomelo, kroh-tong in Khmer. The size of a baby’s head, its almost leathery surface has a thick inner coat that surrounds the pinkish-white pulp. The biggest version of the citrus family of fruits. The pulp can be both sweet and with a slightly tart and biting aftertaste. Each individual bit looks like a teardrop, and biting into it releases a refreshing mix of flavours—also used in salads, with steamed shrimp, lotus roots, peanuts and mint leaves.
Lah-mut, or the sapodilla, known as
The Mango season–soon almost over, but with several varieties still available in the market. The green, crunchy and slightly sweetish one, best eaten with salt and a dash of chili—good for appetizers and yes, loads of fiber too. This one is also tops for the green mango shakes…and of course, the ripe yellow ones, of legendary sweetness, the smoothest of textures. Also heavenly when teamed up with sticky rice cooked in coconut milk….
You can’t have a posting about fruits without mentioning the ‘king’ - Durian. Tastes like heaven but stinks like hell. The only fruit to have been banned from hotel lobbies, aircon buses and elevators. I have ambivalent feelings towards the durian–that hard spiky shell and the creamy, ivory-colored flesh, and the nauseating smell that gallons of tiger balm can’t hide. Can’t understand why people love it, when it is the equivalent of old-sweaty-socks cheese to a discerning nose. Must be eaten only when one has a cold….
Mango season is ending. But it’s time for longkong and kulen. When I go to the local markets to buy fruits, it’s amazing – the bounty and colors. I also have the urge to caress them, feel the textures, and imagine the feel of colors on my palm.
Local fruits come from villages and rural farms: light brown skinned mien (longan to foreigners) with its saccharine, soft translucent flesh and hard dark brown and round pit; spiny kulen prey the shape and color of which reminds me of cockroaches; crisp green and sour potrie from backyards and small orchards; pale yellow phniew, soft but with enough body to remind me of men’s balls without the muskiness; small cheyk pong moan which literally means banana chicken egg, or the equivalent of senorita; kroicht thlong or pomelos from Battambang, excellent for salads or eaten with a slight sprinkling of salt and sold to passersby along the riverside; the refreshing juice of Battambang oranges; delicious manuwah or pineapples and the ubiquitous kroichma, the Kaffir lime.
Others have to be brought in from neighboring countries: flesh-colored longkong or lanzones, always sweet coming from Thailand as are the green mangoes that when peeled are equally rich in sugar. Red thick fleshy skins of delicately-flavored dragon fruits harvested from cacti grown in Vietnam – pale white meat dotted with innumerable black spots. Are these pits that are unable to germinate? Pale yellow round pears and small apples from China; larger ones from Japan
And then there’s me and my friends – non-native, sweet and sour in unequal proportions
One major, major concern of MGMs is of course, how they look to the younger generation. But Victadora is more concerned about keeping fit, (defined as enabling oneself to perform fairly strenuous tasks, enjoy an hour of tennis, jog for three-quarters of an hour, stay at a bar till one AM, and feel horny on a regular basis).
Fitness brings with it both self-confidence and assurance, secure in your own little world that things are ‘just right’, and that while you don’t exactly have a six-pack, you are comfortable with how you look and feel overall).
Fitness ain’t easy—the physical part of it is something you can schedule—brisk walking till you sweat and then going on for 10-20 minutes more, stair climbing, disco dancing, swimming, badminton or tennis. The house I share with Chino and his daddy/mommy is a three minute walk to the main city park, with its imposing stupa-like monument. This is busiest in the wee hours of the morning, before the crack of dawn. Hundreds of people walk around in circles, almost like automatons, all facing the same direction, walking east. It seems strange to see a few souls pounding the pavement, going in the opposite direction, seemingly against the current. We take this unorthodox route—for certain reasons. For example, it is easier to see coming eye candy – when the body shape, height, seems well, uh, a bit attractive, we do one or both of the following: (a) break into a jog, to get a closer view, and (b) break into a smile. That means extra muscles are being exercised—both the neck and the corners of the mouth.
In this country the guys are friendly—meaning, smiles are shared graciously, and a conversation started, which may well, mostly go nowhere.
If it looks like we have misjudged the object of desire (i.e. not as pretty as we supposed), we just look away, or carry on a conversation with ourselves.
We also have embarked on an ‘SRP’ – Stomach Reduction Program, that is. Trying vainly to fit into jeans brought four years ago. Doing a few sit-ups and leg raises while sprawled out on the bed, watching TV. We encourage each other, and do gym together. Having an exercise partner can really help.
The basic principle in keeping fit, maintaining a waistline that’s below one’s age (up to a certain age, of course) is putting in less (food) than what you put out (activity, exercise). In addition then to the sweat-inducing activities above, this means portion control on desserts, pastries, ice cream, fizzy drinks, and all types of sweets/sugars. Cutting down on rice consumption. More fruits, veggies, less fried food, and taking in fluids, a glass of water just before a meal. Chewing food a bit more slowly (30 times before swallowing, according to one article I read years ago).
Keeping reasonably fit through exercise and eating reasonably also wards off stress, promotes better sleeping habits, and makes me feel that every waking day is one more day of feeling alert, lucky and alive!
Said to be the hottest, newest, and wettest place to be in the Manila gay scene—a new ‘membership club’ kuning-kuno opened its doors a couple of weeks ago. Located not far from the corner of Buendia and Harrison, the nondescript exterior of the ‘QUEERIOSITY PALACE’ looks as though it would just have wanted to fade into the row of apartments along FB Harrison. Quite appropriate, if you ask me, for its intended clientele of ‘discreet gay and bisexual men’.
A skinny guy in white shirt, blue pants and a sailor cap sits near the entrance, looking nonplussed. He ushers you quickly into a small reception area, lined with a counter, where your two photo IDs are submitted and a membership form is filled out. Once they are convinced that you just wanna have a good time, are not a minor, or a senior citizen (older MGM, take note) they will take your P99 annual membership dues, and the charges for the night (depending on the time that you enter and on the kind of room you’d like to have, you pay between 160.00 and 400.00). You are given a number, you deposit your shoes and get a pair of slippers, and you are brought into the next room — the ’safety deposit ‘ area. Here, three more cutie sailor boys ask you to put in your mobile phone, valuables, etc in a plastic box; they record all this in a logbook–even the make and model of the phone, and then they will lock all your stuff up in a transparent (clear plastic) row of shelves — something like the post office boxes, except that they are all clear plastic–as you look on. You are given the same number for your shoes, your security box, and for the locker in the dressing room.
The dressing room is next–looks straight out of a movie set, with lightbulbs all around the corners of the huge mirrors, surrounded on all three sides–and there of course, are the cotton buds, the hair gel, but no mouthwash…
On to the locker room where another cute sailor boy takes you to the small lockers (not big enough to hang stuff) where you’re given a towel and a condom, as well as a key on an elastic band with your locker’s number on it. This happens to be the same number for your shoes, safety box, etc.
The restooms are fine, but no toilet paper–minus. Dipper and pail lang, and none of the extension hoses that you can spray your little butt with, unlike saunas in Thailand. The shower area is a long line of about a dozen showers, with ample shower power–no trickling here–but ther’s no hot water and it turns out to be a bit too cold for me. Anyway a nicle place to ogle–the shower floor is fascinating, made of stainless teel that’s non-slip. The gutter runs right through the middle of the stalls, and since there are no dividers you can glance left to right, up down, etc etc with ease. The showers are mounted back-to-back, so you actually have two rows of open showers. So far, so good.
There’s a bar that can sit around 8-10 people, and a small jacuzzi, can take at most 10-12, and a steam room on the ground floor–one section was closed off, which the owners say will be space for a gym. It will be a good location since those in the showers and those in the gym will be able to view each other, through glass that is just a bit translucent. The bar area, jacuzzi, etc has a white pebble floor that squishes as you walk. Good idea, you don’t need to mop up too often.
Excited ? There’s more upstairs…
The upper floor is spacious, with a few ‘queen rooms’ that have a full bath, and a twin bed. There are four such rooms; there is also a computer area, with three computers, which a number of people were surfing on…a decent sized room (about 16 sq m) with a flat screen TV showing adult gay films. No seats in this room, so you all line up standing by the walls watching those guys do fascinating things to each other…On the 2nd floor, more showers and toilets. The main rampa area has about 30 cubicles, each with a single sized bed, a fan, and roomy enough to accomodate five or six people, inf you fancy company. The rampa area is lit from the floor, with red fairy lights, located beneath transparent floor panels.
The second floor is done up in red and black–the red lights are on the floor and there are mirrors on the hallways, making it a little bit eerie at times, and highlighting valuable assets, sometimes in an unfavorable way. But generally visibility is OK, so you can smile at two meter’s length and be acknowledged or rebuffed. Temperature is kept a comfortable level.
So who was there that night ? There were about 30-35 people, age range from early 20s to early 50’s. Six Taiwanese, a couple of them muscle boys. Not bad at all. Most of course had their towels on–these are large towels, about 48" long. But a few roamed around in their briefs or underpants.
Overall, it strikes me as being a bit post-modern–concrete, steel, black and red lights, but also a bit home-y in parts. A good alternative to the Club Baths, and a more mature crowd compared to ‘F’. The minuses? No drinking water, no hot water, no sauna so far. Nothing like a groping room, and a gym to open soon. They don’t want people to wear caps, and have restrictions on people with long-hair (whether this is just the hair, or because somebody looks effeminate, I don’t know–but it all seems a bit arbitrary). These discreet kuno at mga pa-minta can be quite discriminatory with people who don’t fit their own sterotypical images of ‘men’ or who they feel are more ‘pa-girl’ than they are. It all looks a bit sexist, ageist and homophobic to me.
I have a feeling though that places like this have a market in Metro Manila, and I think it will be very popular in the next few months.
…I saw gray hair down there e I shrieked. Muted and lady-like of course.
Joke laang. Taken aback siempre. Pulled it out but more came to the funeral. For a time I was just resigned. Now it doesn’t mean a thing. Same for head hair. When the supply of melanin slowly failed, I was totally dismayed. I felt I was handed a notice informing me of my remaining time. And I didn’t have enough time to do the things I always liked to do, expected to, or even plan to. Then I was in denial (I dyed). Now, it just is. I’m nearing stage IV - quite soon, all white na ako. Even on those days!
I’ve reached a milestone of sorts: even if they were less than welcome in the beginning, I’m now cool with my gray hairs. But the whole aging thing is still a work in progress for me
Getting gray hair almost always indicates advancing age. Usually this is a gradual process–as formerly lush, lustrous curls lose their bounce and become thin and faded, there is often a look of regret, perhaps of nostalgia, for the ‘crowning glory’, which by the time you’re in your 4th or 5th decade, starts to fritter away. What used to be carefully all gelled, or moussed over, tossed about carelessly is now carefully dyed, pondered over every morning, or covered with a cap.
Gray hair on one’s head is one thing, but little can be done to alleviate the shock of finding out that yes, you do get gray down there. And it really seems to sprout overnight: one day its not there, the next morning, just as you look down, a single strand stands out, like an albino pup in a litter of black labradors. Sometimes you can get an early warning sign. A stray strand on your moustache, for example. But seeing it on the pubes is something else.
Indeed, one stray hair that looks different from the others especially down there where the sun don’t shine can upset some. I have friends who started shaving their pubic areas soon after, or who very demurely decided to wear swimsuts even on naked nights in saunas.
But, there is a more practical solution. Pretend its not there. Wear it as a badge of honor. Or like i did, pluck it out, blowing kisses as you go…
